


The Blood of Others Suits You

by CaptainViolet



Category: Versailles (TV 2015)
Genre: Crossdressing, Ficlet, Gen, Weapons, i know nothing about rapier fighting tbh, pining?, rapiers, sword fight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-22
Updated: 2019-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:53:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21523408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainViolet/pseuds/CaptainViolet
Summary: A little oneshot: Monsieur wishes to practise fighting.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 15





	The Blood of Others Suits You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LilithAdaryn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilithAdaryn/gifts).

The guards open the doors for Fabien. He walks into grand chambers, and halts as he spots His Highness standing at a window, gazing at the misty landscape outside. “You wished to see me, Your Highness?”

Monsieur keeps his eyes on the gardens of Versailles. “What did you think of my fight earlier today?”

“My opinion on that hardly matters.”

“I asked you a question.”

“It was just.”

His Highness looks back at him, his eyes pale and unreadable. “Just?”

Fabien shrugs lightly. “Whoever mocks you must be punished. And so they were.”

“Yes, but what of the fight itself? In hindsight, I thought it lacked elegance.”

Fabien can only just hold back a comment on how he could never think of Monsieur as inelegant. “I know little of such things. My training in formal fighting ended years ago. If I fight, it has to be effective, not elegant. Personally I think the blood of others suits you.”

The corner of His Highness’ mouth twitches.

Fabien freezes._ I should not have said that_, he thinks, _it is not my place. _He dares not to breathe.

“Fight me.”

“What?”

Monsieur walks to a small vanity, picks up two rapiers and throws one at Fabien, who catches it with a grasp that can only be termed inelegant.

“Fight me”, His Highness repeats, “I wish to practise.”

“But… you are wearing-“

“A dress, oui. That is precisely the point.” He turns to face Fabien, weapon at the ready. “I must practise to fight in it.”

Fabien hastens to remove the scabbard from his own rapier. He tells himself that while Monsieur is a most skilled fighter, the impractical clothing will hinder him. He, Fabien, might even stand a chance. But he also tells himself that, no matter what, he will not win. _It is not my place._

His Highness is quick to attack first. His strike is true. Fabien evades it just in time.

His mind is already planning his own first blow. He has learned how to fight properly, but it is a long time ago. The rules are not in his blood anymore. Over time, he has adapted his fighting style – winning swiftly, killing quietly have become much more important than style or sportsmanship. He tries his best to remember as the beads of sweat begin to pearl on his forehead.

Monsieur’s strikes keep coming even though he occasionally stumbles over the hem of his dress.

Soon Fabien parries swiftly but crudely, and sooner still he forgets himself and switches the blade into his left hand to launch an attack.

Monsieur deflects it at the last moment. He seems surprised, and then laughs – ready for the challenge.

Fabien’s resolve not to win turns into one to last longer than a minute. A wide swing of Monsieur’s arm also brings the silk of his dress between Fabien’s feet, he becomes entangled, and with a sound of astonishment he falls on his back.

“As much as its underskirts hinder me, the dress also works to my advantage.” Monsieur sounds content. He also sounds as if he’s hardly out of breath.

Fabien does not answer. He tells himself that this is because he is breathless with fighting, and not because the subject of underskirts leaves him remarkably tongue-tied.

Monsieur holds out a hand, Fabien grips it and stands, then picks up his rapier. Within seconds, they are fighting again. Fabien notices more often than not he is deflecting and dodging instead of attacking.

Then Monsieur’s blade flashes and ever so lightly touches Fabien’s chin. His Highness holds the rapier even, a perfect, undaunted horizon, his face filled with content triumph. Fabien isn’t really disappointed. Hardly anyone manages to defeat the Duc d’Orléans in a fight. Monsieur doesn’t remove his blade; and he arches a cocky eyebrow at Fabien, as if saying, _so this is how it’s going to be, _and Fabien is confused because he feels as if he has stepped out of line, as if he’s being extremely mischievous, but knows not what he’s done wrong. Monsieur bites his lower lip as if to keep down a smile and lifts his rapier a little so that Fabien has to lift his chin with it.

_In a formal fight the vanquished has to yield_, he finally remembers, and lets his weapon clatter to the floor so he can lift both his hands.

With a content look, Monsieur lowers his blade. “Merci.”

Fabien lets out a slow breath. “Anytime, your Highness.”


End file.
